


Metal Man

by JennaCupcakes, speightdaysaweek



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, M/M, Multi, References to Drug Use, but it will be okay in the end, controlling parents, courfeyrac is the mother hen, grantaire has sex with people that are not enjolras, grantaire's life sucks okay, metal!Grantaire, punk!Courf courfeyROCKS, sex to come, sloppy handjob
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2013-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-16 09:25:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/860542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaCupcakes/pseuds/JennaCupcakes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/speightdaysaweek/pseuds/speightdaysaweek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire's pretty sure there's a joke somewhere about the guy who gets stuck in some town because of a cup of hot chocolate. He can't remember the punchline, but apparently someone named Enjolras features in it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ain't It Fun

**Author's Note:**

> A pair of black boots and a perfectly timed skype-conversation with speightdaysaweek brought this 'verse into existence, because we both realised there is never not a time for metal!Grantaire. It really got out of hand from there on.
> 
> There is gonna be angst, and Grantaire has sex with People That Are Not Enjolras. Just as a heads-up. Bear with us.

Grantaire saw the guy sitting on a bench just outside a big green park across from the old university building in the centre of town. Well, that wasn’t exactly true: What Grantaire saw wasn’t the guy, but the jacket. Heavy and large, in black leather with dangerous looking metal spikes across the shoulders, which matched the guys pierced ears (and eyebrow, and mouth, and nose).

“That’s a nice jacket.” Grantaire noted, which was an understatement; Grantaire knew for sure that this was the sweetest jacket he had ever seen in his life. Also it was maybe one or two sizes too big so R could use it as a blanket when necessary, padded for warmth. Many pockets to carry his shit, damn it was exactly what he needed.

“And those are nice shoes,” countered the bench guy, regarding Grantaire’s long black Doc Martens with laces all the way down the front; his best pair of shoes. Well, technically they were his only pair of shoes, but they were definitely the nicest he’d ever owned.

“Thanks. Won them in a fight.” He said with a smirk.

“Oh yeah?” said the guy, “And was it a good one?”

“Hell yes. Broke my nose and won some shoes. Best day of my life. Do you fight?”

“For those shoes I do. What size are they?”

“10.”

“Tell you what.” said the guy, “We fight. My jacket against your shoes. What do you say?”

“What are your terms?”

“No hits below the belt. No face punches.”

Grantaire smirked. “Pussy.”

“ _Fine_! Just no balls hits! Anything else?”

“Yeah, take off the jacket. Don’t want to get my nice new jacket covered in your blood.”

“Then you take off your shoes!” Damn. They  could have been an advantage. Meh, Grantaire still wasn’t worried.

“Fine.” Said Grantaire, putting one foot on the bench to unlace them. He took his time, with Jacket Guy raking his eyes down Grantaire more times than was necessary. Was he sizing him up or checking him out? Grantaire stuck his butt out whilst unlacing the other shoe. Yep, the guy was checking him out. Grantaire mentally noted it as a possible advantage. Grantaire stepped backwards as the guy got up, stubbed out his cigarette on the arm of the bench and stepped forwards, squaring his shoulders. Grantaire noted that he was about a head taller, and broader, which would be an advantage, but then again he hadn’t had Grantaire’s training.

The guy started moving in a circle. Amateur. Grantaire absentmindedly wondered if he’d ever actually been in a fight, whilst he shocked the guy with two punches to the face and one to the stomach, an upper cut to the jaw and finally holding his biceps and moving his right leg behind the guy to push him over.

The guy did nothing but gasp, wide-eyed.

“Holy fuck man, what just happened?”

“You got your ass kicked, sorry about that.” Said Grantaire, standing up and offering him a hand. “I believe you owe me a jacket?”

"Take the fucking jacket!" said the guy, taking his hand and pulling him on top for a dirty kiss. The guy was all tongue and needy moans demanding hands, and Grantaire wondered if he ever wanted the fight in the first place, or if he was just looking for a fuck.

The guy rolled Grantaire over so that he was on top, and sat up slightly to straddle him, rubbing the hard line of his cock against Grantaire’s interested one, and bit Grantaire’s lip. “You got somewhere to go?” the guy panted.

“No.” answered Grantaire. “You?”

“No, but I don’t need one.” He climbed off and pulled Grantaire to his feet. He dragged him to an alley in front of the university across from the park, pushing Grantaire against the wall.

Grantaire made the decision in that moment to just go with it, and kissed the dude back with equal passion.

Why the fuck not. Whatever. Sure, yeah.

He wasted no further time in undoing the guy’s trousers, and slipping his hand inside. Impressive.

Grantaire had hardly started before the guy slammed his head against the wall behind him and began moaning like he was being paid for it.

Calm down man, it’s only a handjob.

It was at this point that some curly-haired punk passed the alleyway and gave Grantaire an exaggerated wink and a thumbs up, and Grantaire realised he was pretty vulnerable here.

And his new jacket and his shoes were 500 yards away.

Grantaire redoubled his efforts, pulling out every trick he knew; kissing him dirty, stroking his thumb across the head, and the guy came a moment or two later in Grantaire’s hand, moaning like a porn star.

“Well that was… nice” Said Grantaire, while the guy slumped against the wall behind him, panting hard. “I’ll.. erm, see you again?”

“Yeah sure.” said the Guy. _Yeah right_ , thought Grantaire.

“Well,” Grantaire concluded, wiping his hand on the Guy’s shirt, and backing away. “Gotta run”

“Hey! Can I at least get your name?” He shouted after Grantaire’s retreating form.

“George!” Grantaire shouted back, as he grabbed his shoes, his bag and his brand new jacket and ran, hoping to find himself a place to drink, after which he’d find a place to sleep.

 

∞|∞

 

Enjolras could fill pages and pages with a detailed description of why exactly leaving Courfeyrac in charge of finding a new location for their meetings had been a bad idea.

Point one would consist of three paragraphs of complaints about the level of noise in the establishment in question, and why exactly that disrupted their meetings more than necessary. He remembered explicitly telling Courfeyrac to look for something quiet and less crowded than the bars he normally dragged them to. The Musain did not meet the criteria.

Point two would probably include complaining about something general like the fact that the table was uneven or the chairs looked ready to fall apart any moment, or maybe that the only non-alcoholic beverage they served was Virgin Colada – which was totally unnecessary and inexplicable, why wouldn’t they serve water and was Courfeyrac really immature enough to laugh every time Enjolras ordered one. The answer was yes.

Point three would be about Grantaire.

 

∞|∞

 

Enjolras had already taken his place at the head of their table – there had been a lengthy discussion with the waiter about the exact pronunciation of Courfeyrac who had reserved said table – when Combeferre peeked through the heavy wooden doors. His face lit up when he spotted Enjolras at the table, and he greeted his friend with a raised hand. His other arm was weighed down by a heavy bag full of books hanging from it – textbooks, most likely, Combeferre never read for pleasure during the semester. He was wearing one of the shirts Courfeyrac had given him for his birthday two years ago, some long-faded innuendo about conductors, and washed out jeans that sat a little too tight around where he had gained weight as the exams neared.

“Did you bring the complaints?” Combeferre asked. They didn’t bother with greetings anymore – they spent so little time apart that it felt like no time at all. Enjolras nodded.

“I have them here,” he replied and pulled a batch of papers out of his backpack, most of them filled out in scrawny handwriting, others rumpled and torn. Combeferre nodded and reached for them.

“I had a first look through them,” Enjolras explained, “And there seems to be a focus on issues that center around the library system. Though we should probably give the ones that the LGBQA+ group sent over a look first.”

Combeferre went through the complaints with the characteristic crease on his forehead. Les Amis de les Étudiants, as they called themselves, mainly owed their popularity as a student representation to his endlessly calm and thorough nature – though some credit had to be given to Enjolras and his unbelievable stubbornness when it came to shouting down professors and university officials. The two of them had been on the board ever since Professor Lamarque had founded it, and with Courfeyrac coming in the year after that, followed by Joly, Feuilly, Cosette and Jehan, and Eponine as their latest member this year, they had gained the trust of their fellow students to take care of their issues.

“What’s the matter with the library?” Combeferre asked, looking up from the papers. Enjolras was about to answer when the door opened and Feuilly and Bahorel barged in.

Bahorel was basically on the board as well, though not officially. He was a law student, which meant they called him at least twice a meeting when they got stuck on legal problems, and he and Feuilly basically lived in each others’ back pockets, so having one meant getting the other for free.

“How’s it going?” Bahorel asked with a smirk, and Enjolras belatedly realised he was talking to the bartender. Feuilly just slumped down on a seat next to Combeferre. He was a short, wiry guy, his arms muscular from his day job as a mechanic. He kept his hair short, his clothes plain and practical, and his appearance all in all average – except for the flaming red colour of his hair.

“I swear to God, I am going to murder my boss.”

Enjolras gave him a thumbs-up. “Down with capitalistic assholes,” he muttered absentmindedly as he took the complaints from Combeferre to assort them in a new way for them to work through during the meeting. He’d already had them in order, but a sudden spark of inspiration prompted him to put the library complaints to the middle of the meeting – possibly in the hope that everybody would be present and still alert.

“What happened?” Combeferre asked, and it was probably proof that he was indeed the better friend of the two of them, because _down with capitalistic assholes_ most likely wasn’t the counsel Feuilly needed.

“You know he lets his cat run around the changing rooms?” Feuilly asked, and he looked actually heartbroken instead of simply gruff and displeased with the world in general. “I hate that fucking cat.”

“What have you got against cats?” Joly came from out of nowhere, giving Feuilly a hug from behind before Feuilly angrily shrugged him off, though it was hard to be angry at Joly for long, with his jovial smile and his gentle nature, albeit a bit overly worried. He had pale olive skin, and dark brown hair that fell into his face every time he lowered his gaze, and though he was neither muscular nor particularly tall, he radiated a calm sort of confidence.

“I left my boots there, cause we’re not allowed to wear our own boots when we’re working with the machines,” Feuilly explained, and gingerly raised his left foot so that the others could see the boot. There was a collective gasp that made Enjolras look up, and now he could understand why Feuilly was so cross – his black leather boots had been ripped to shreds by something with claws, apparently the cat, which was a remarkable feat in itself, and in the front nothing but the bare steel toe cap had remained.

“I need those shoes,” Feuilly grumbled, “And just because he wants to keep his bloody cat free as the wind I’ll have to throw them away.”

“It’s definitely acceptable to murder him.” Bahorel joined them from the bar. “I am a lawyer, and I can tell you that no judge would look down on you for getting your revenge for your boots.”

Feuilly half-smirked and smacked Bahorel on the head. “Shut up, you moron.”

Enjolras put the complaints aside and leaned over to Combeferre. “Do you know who’s coming tonight?”

“Jehan is coming with Eponine and Cosette. Courfeyrac didn’t explicitly state he wouldn’t come, but I’m not sure. Maybe he’s just late.”

The door opened again, this time to the announced trio – Jehan stumbled in laughing, Cosette smirking and Eponine trailed behind with a small smile on her face. Jehan sat down next to Joly and smiled dopily. His t-shirt was fitting loosely, and decorated with flowers he had drawn himself. “Hey guys.”

Cosette ruffled Enjolras’ hair because she knew it annoyed him and then sat down together with Eponine. The two of them were almost inseparable, having grown up in the same area and now including Marius in whatever it was they were having.

“Are we late?”

Combeferre shook his head. “Not to worry, we still lack Courfeyrac. Do you know where he is?”

“Well, his lecture ended about twenty minutes ago. He should be here any moment,” Eponine replied with a shrug. Her hair, as well as Jehan’s, had been dyed with violet streaks this week, and Cosette still had stains from the dye on her hands.

Enjolras sighed. “He suggested this place. I thought he would at least be on time for this.”

“It’s not like Courfeyrac is generally late,” Joly threw in, “Who knows, maybe it’s a last-minute-complaint?”

Of course, Courfeyrac took this moment to barge in, in all his red-and-black, torn jeans and ripped tank-top glory. “You won’t believe what I just saw.”

Jehan raised his head. “Was it a tiger?”

Courfeyrac wasn’t even irritated – of all the members of their group, sharing a flat with Jehan had probably made him most accustomed to the part-time poet’s antics. He walked over to the group and sat down next to Enjolras, drawing up a chair and leaning over the table with a shit-eating grin on his face. “You know, I was on the way here from the lecture, and there’s this alley by the park, and I was just passing and there’s this two guys just having _sex_ there...”

Somehow, Enjolras felt he should have expected that ending to the story, and the whistling and cheering that followed. “I didn’t want to know that,” he grumbled nonetheless and glared at Courfeyrac. “Now can we please get on with the meeting?”

Courfeyrac shoved him playfully. “Oh, come on...”

“Really, though.” Enjolras waved the stack of papers in front of his face. “We have a lot to do.”

Courfeyrac grabbed the first one. “Please tell me at least one of them is about Professor Javert. I really want to hurt Professor Javert.”

“That’s not what we’re supposed to do.”

“Well you can talk,” Courfeyrac snorted, “You once made a professor cry because he wouldn’t listen to his students’ complaints, remember?”

Combeferre had to stifle a laugh, and Bahorel whooped. Enjolras groaned, because they brought that story up every other meeting and he had given up on calmly explaining that those hadn’t really been _tears_ and Enjolras hadn’t really been _shouting_ and really Courfeyrac had exaggerated the story and it had taken his own way from there on.

“Okay, what’s on our list?” Courfeyrac asked, leaning back on his chair and folding his arms over his chest. The tattoos curled from around his wrists up his arms, all black and complicated patterns and Courfeyrac had this trick where he flexed his muscles to make them almost seem _alive_.

Enjolras cleared his throat. “First up is Jennifer B. with a complaint about the lack of vegetarian or vegan meals in the cafeteria.”

“How original,” Bahorel remarked.

Combeferre sent him a reprimanding glance. “Hush.”

“I know we’ve discussed this before,” Enjolras said, “but it really _is_ unfair that there is one vegetarian dish that is regularly sold out and the rest always contains meat.”

“There is a serious danger of malnutrition with vegan and vegetarian meals, I mean not that it’s bad, but if you’re not careful...”

“We are aware of that, Joly,” Enjolras replied, “Talking to the cafeteria didn’t work the last time. Maybe we could get a petition going, or a survey to find out how much demand for vegetarian meals exists among students.”

“I’m in for the petition,” Combeferre remarked, “If we do it online, it’ll be less work.”

“Courfeyrac?” Enjolras turned to the guy on his right.

“Noted,” Courfeyrac remarked, already marking the complaint as processed and writing down the suggested solution. The group moved on, steadily working their way through the pile of complaints from their fellow students with surprisingly few incidents.

About halfway through, Bossuet stumbled through the doors of the Musain.

Bossuet, who, at twenty-two, had already gone bald, and was as unlucky in every other aspect of life as he was in this, was pressing a hand to his forehead and mumbling quietly about rotten luck. Joly, who had just been elaborating on a possible flu epidemic in the university got up from his chair immediately and ran over to his friend.

“Bossuet, what happened?”

Bossuet groaned and motioned for Joly to lead him to a chair, which Joly did with the utmost care and affection.

“Bossuet, look up,” he instructed, “Can you understand me?”

Bossuet looked up and nodded. “Do you have painkillers?” he slurred almost hopefully, and Joly patted his shoulder.

“I should have brought them.”

Back at the table, Enjolras sighed and leaned back in his seat, and the others took that as a cue to lean back and breathe for a second as well. Courfeyrac put aside his notes and fished his phone out of his pocket for texting, Combeferre assorted the pile of rejected complaints and Feuilly and Bahorel quietly started bickering about dinner. Well, according to them, bickering about mass murder and the colour of the curtains, but it was all the same to them.

Enjolras looked over at Combeferre. “We’re taking a break.”

Combeferre nodded quietly.

Joly was still fussing over Bossuet, who seemed a bit dizzy, though if he had been concussed Joly would have called an ambulance by now, and the other members of the board were happily caught up in their recreational activities too.

Enjolras’ head hurt.

“I’m getting a bit of fresh air,” he announced to Combeferre, pushed his chair back and got up. His back hurt from sitting for so long, and he leaned from one side to another gingerly as he crossed the room and pushed open the door.

There was a guy sitting on the steps that lead down to the street, smoking and breathing heavily.

Enjolras stopped dead, not sure how to proceed. Could he stay here without this getting awkward? Was he expected to start a conversation to excuse his presence? He wasn’t quite sure – especially since the stranger had a rather intimidating exterior. His leather jacket was studded with metal spikes that looked dangerously sharp, and the way he held his cigarette had the practiced nonchalance of someone who didn’t particularly care about life or death. His hair was curly and black, a dark mop crowning his head – analogies that referred back to monarchy were stupid, Enjolras decided, and huffed out a silent, frustrated breath.

He tried to think of something to say to make this encounter less uncomfortable – though, to be fair, the other man hadn’t even seemed to notice him.

Enjolras spotted the patch on the backpack about the same time the man took another drag from his cigarette.

_Fuck the system._

He could work with that. Taking a deep breath he opened his mouth, and it still came out all wrong.

“Nice backpack.”

 

 

 

∞|∞

 

With shaking legs and aching hands – or was it the other way around? – Grantaire finally came to a stop, his chest heaving, his t-shirt sticky and his feet heavy. He’d already learned that heavy leather boots where a disadvantage while running, and the same could be said about the leather jacket.

But he was proud of that jacket. He liked that jacket.

He grinned at that, although nobody could see him. Wasn’t it said that most people only smiled when others were there to observe it because smiling was a social reaction? Well, Grantaire only (honestly) smiled when he was for himself, and it was always a thing that passed quickly. It happened in victory, and in defeat, a baring of teeth at the fact that he was still alive, tempting something that wasn’t quite death to take it further, to come closer to him.

He had no particular death wish, but he didn’t care much about living as well.

Grantaire found a pack of cigarettes in one of the jacket’s many pockets – God bless the idiot, he’d left them there – and he lit one with shaking hands as he slumped down in front of a building that he presumed to be a bar of sorts. He took a long drag to settle his frantic breathing, an almost unrecognisable melody weaving itself into the air and the smoke as he breathed out. His backpack was wedged between his legs, secured tightly so no passing imbecile trying to get lucky could snatch it while he was busy smoking and trying to regulate his breathing.

He took another drag of the cigarette when he heard a voice from behind.

“Nice backpack.”

Grantaire tensed automatically, because every compliment he’d uttered in the past – how many years had it been? Three? Five? –had been an expression of want towards something, and were usually followed by a fight. His backpack was pretty much the only thing that wasn’t up for trade.

“Thanks,” he said tensely, as another guy sat down beside him.

Well, Grantaire said guy. He actually had to do a double take when he saw him, a boy who could hardly be older than seventeen – though his t-shirt with the logo of the local university showed him to be at least nineteen, maybe twenty, Grantaire didn’t know at what age people went to uni – with blond hair tied to a loose bun in his neck, strands falling forward to frame his face, a face that was lean and delicate. He had small wrists and long fingers, and was tall, albeit not overly muscular.

From the corner of Grantaire’s eye, he looked more like a girl than a guy.

Not that Grantaire minded.

Well, maybe he did mind. He couldn’t quite place it. Something about this guy put him off.

“I’m Enjolras,” the guy said and held out his hand, and the movement alone looked fascinatingly graceful. Grantaire actually stared for several seconds before he could make himself raise his hand to introduce himself as well.

“Grantaire,” he said, raising the cigarette to his lips in the process and curling his lips around the filter to take a drag. He realised Enjolras was following the movement of his hand with his eyes. There was something calculating in his gaze, something that made Grantaire look away pointedly as he could feel the other man’s stare burning into his side. He didn’t like the way the guy looked at him, couldn’t stand it when people spared him more than a passing glance. Anybody who looked at him for more than two seconds should be able to figure that he wasn’t fit for being the centre of attention.

There were cars rushing past on the street in front of the bar, and students passing on bikes, greeting each other hastily. The evening air felt chilly on his face, but Grantaire had his new jacket and heavy boots, and feared neither storm nor snow. He feared empty rooms and suffocation, and that was it.

His cigarette burned down, and Enjolras was still looking at him.

He stubbed it out on the steps he was sitting on and moved to get up. Enjolras was quicker, offering him a hand as he stood. “Would you like to come inside, Grantaire?”

His voice sounded much more serious than his appearance would have lead Grantaire to believe. It took him a moment to figure that this was because his voice – ringing clear as a bell and sharp as a lion’s teeth – was almost completely bereft of any emotion. This man was unsettling.

“Are you trying to hit on me?” Grantaire asked with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. Enjolras wasn’t his usual type – but then again, he didn’t really have a type besides most likely clean, male, and breathing.

Enjolras looked thoroughly shocked by the possibility. “I just wanted to be friendly.”

Grantaire’s forehead creased. Enjolras’ words made no sense to him. Still, he shrugged. “I’ll come,” he replied, “I guess.”

And he followed Enjolras inside.

 

∞|∞

 

It was definitely a bar, Grantaire decided as Enjolras pushed open the doors and then _fucking held it open for Grantaire to walk through_ , cringing slightly at the loud talking and laughing coming from inside. Most of the noise came from the one table that was fully occupied, although there was music blasting through speakers at the ceiling – _country_ , Grantaire would maybe have to murder someone before the evening was over.

Enjolras moved to the loud table, sitting down on an empty chair at the head of the table. On his right, a spiky-haired punk Grantaire thought to vaguely recognise raised his head.

“Two buds and a virgin colada!” he shouted over to the guy at the bar, who flipped him off but moved to get the drinks anyway.

Grantaire put on his trademark smirk and crossed his arms. “So who’s the lucky virgin?”

Grantaire’s new acquaintance seemed unsure whether to strangle the punk on his right or Grantaire. The punk gave him a thumbs-up and mouthed _I like you_ , pointing to the empty seat next to him.

Enjolras cleared his throat and fixed Grantaire with a pointed stare. “That would be me. It’s the only non-alcoholic drink in the place and I prefer to keep a level head in meetings.”

Grantaire slid into the seat next to the punk, winking at Enjolras only for good measure. “Whatever floats your boat, honey.”

The punk next to him grinned proudly. “I like you,” he repeated, “I’m Courfeyrac.”

Grantaire hesitated for a second to long, not sure if he wanted to give his actual name or not. He could see the hint of expectation from Courfeyrac, and ran a hand through his hair.

“Nice to meet you,” he replied hoarsely, “I’m Grantaire.”

He felt strange, saying his name out loud.

Courfeyrac turned his attention back to the table, where a smiling man with dark hair and a bald guy with a makeshift bandage around his head joined them.

“All fixed,” the dark-haired guy replied happily, “We can go on.”

Enjolras cleared his throat.

“Since this is probably the highest rate of attendance we’re going to get tonight--” He glanced over at the guy with the bandage and some dangerous looking guy with tattoos who smirked at him. “I had hoped we could discuss the library issue that has been brought to our attention multiple times.”

A guy with glasses handed Enjolras a stack of papers, and Enjolras flicked through them absentmindedly. “Thank you, Combeferre.”

He pulled one out of the stack and stood up. Grantaire rolled his eyes – God forbid, the guy was actually going to hold a _speech_. Why exactly had he invited Grantaire in? What cruel Gods had he angered to deserve this?

He nudged Courfeyrac. “What’s it that you’re doing here?”

Courfeyrac leaned over to whisper his reply, keeping an eye out for Enjolras – presumably to look out for angry reactions. “We’re the board of student representatives for the university.”

He gave Grantaire another one-over, taking in the muddy boots and the fraying shirt under his leather jacket. “I thought you had a complaint and that’s why Enjolras brought you along.”

Grantaire shook his head. “I have no idea why he invited me in.”

He looked over at Enjolras who was giving the issue a possibly unnecessary introduction. He seemed to be quoting several complaints, and Grantaire had to admire his dedication to the subject, if nothing else. “I thought maybe he wanted to hit on me, but...”

Courfeyrac snorted. “Yeah, no. I don’t think he’s ever shown sexual interest in another person.” He hummed thoughtfully. “Then again, I’ve never asked him. Maybe it would be worth a try.”

Grantaire snorted, then pointed to the bar. “I think your drinks are done.”

Courfeyrac was about to get up, but Grantaire put a hand on his shoulder.

 _Touching_. How strange. He didn’t do casual touching.

“I’ll get them. You make sure your fellow students get revenge for however the system has wronged them.”

He strolled over to the bar. The waiter was cleaning glasses, only briefly smiling at Grantaire when he sent the guy a questioning glance. “They’ve opened a tab.”

Grantaire cast a glance over his shoulder, but nobody seemed to be looking in his direction. “In that case, I’ll take a beer too. Put it on there, will you?”

The guy nodded. “Sure.”

Grantaire took the two beers to the table, having them snatched from his hands by some ginger dude and Courfeyrac before he could ask whom they belonged to, and then returned with his beer and the Virgin Colada.

He didn’t stop smirking _or_ looking at Enjolras while he put the drink down in front of the still talking student, who faltered a bit as Grantaire brushed past him to get back to his seat.

“As I said...” He coughed irritably. “The fees that are applied for textbooks are ridiculous and a concept that is more than ancient. Education is free, but the means to achieve education are not. Content is not free, and thus the question of inequality rises again.”

 _Nice one_ , Grantaire thought. Almost a pity that he didn’t care, because higher education had never been something he’d thought to pursue. Lack of opportunity, that was what Enjolras would probably call it. Lack of opportunity, a caring father, and about everything else that was good in this world.

Grantaire had given up on good things.

He let his gaze wander across the room, first seeking out the faces of the people on the table and then the bar in general. The music was still playing, an irritating itch in the back of his mind, and there were three guys around twenty-five playing billiards in the corner, whooping loudly whenever one of them scored a hit. The bartender was still scrubbing glasses, and the customers at the other tables were either alone or talking quietly.

Now that he had a minute for himself, where he wasn’t imminently occupied with smoking or running, he could feel some minor aches making themselves known – a knot in his neck where he’d whipped his head around too fast, the skin on his knuckles scraped off and raw, and the soles of his feet hurting where he’d fought without shoes. So he was never doing that again.

Still, it was by far not the worst thing Grantaire could recall. He had a couple of broken bones on his list, a broken rib among those as well as a broken nose, several cuts that needed stitches, a concussion and a ligament rupture. He’d also once needed to walk around with a cast on his foot because some idiot doctor diagnosed him with a broken foot after he’d dropped a bottle of water on it – not even alcohol, water, his luck was the worst and the cast had cost him two packs of cigarettes because he’d had to back down from a fight. And it hadn’t even been broken.

He flexed his hand carefully, but when his nerves didn’t scream in protest, he relaxed. It had happened before, despite his best training, he’d broken bones in his hand by being overly rushed when throwing punches. Sometimes even he lost his cool.

The fingers of his – luckily not broken – hand curled around the beer bottle. The glass felt cool and slightly wet in his hand. He took a sip and forced himself out of his thoughts to listen to what this little group of idealists was putting together.

“Essentially, what is happening right now is that they’re making _criminals_ out of young people, before they’re even able to fully comprehend the legal complexity of the situation, a situation that even lawyers who’ve studied the topic for _years_ disagree upon. There is no way to control what content can be accessed over the internet, and there _shouldn’t_ be. They have to admit it’s a lost cause. Content is already technically free, every child knows how to download their music online, and still the government insists on laws that weren’t even made for this situation. Either we need a new law, or the government needs to accept that with the internet, the rules of distribution have changed. Internet piracy is only a thing in the eyes of those who cling to laws that were made long before the internet even existed.”

Enjolras still held the same stack of papers as before in his hands, and Grantaire had no idea how they’d arrived here from the discussion of library fees. Well, maybe he had a vague idea, but he’d missed most of it and he wasn’t particularly interested. Enjolras’ attitude bugged him, though.

He’d never been one for smart ideas about when to shut up.

“So basically what you’re saying is fuck the musicians and everyone who produces content?” He made a little depreciating noise before he could stop himself, and then realised that everyone was looking at him.

“Let them starve but at least your music’s free?” he added lamely, shrugging and sinking further down in his seat. The dark-haired guy laughed and nudged his friend with the bandage who in turn gave the dark-haired guy a smile and Grantaire a thumbs-up. Courfeyrac was too busy watching Enjolras with a careful expression.

“That’s not funny, Joly,” Enjolras hissed at the dark-haired guy – well, maybe not hissed, but Grantaire was a little biased and Enjolras seemed aggravated enough to justify the choice of words – and then turned to Grantaire. He seemed irritated. Maybe Grantaire wasn’t allowed to speak, probably because he wasn’t on the board. But why else was he here, then?

“I’m not saying _let them starve_ , as you so eloquently put it,” Enjolras explained, and Grantaire had to admit he sounded very calm and collected for someone who was outwardly showing so many signs of passion – he was all hands and gestures and righteous fury in his posture, yet his voice remained untouched. “I’m saying we need an entirely new system of distribution to keep the government from making criminals out of teenagers.”

“Oh, okay,” Grantaire remarked, raising his eyebrows briefly, mocking surprised understanding. “Because I thought you were excusing musical piracy and that’s really a dick move when you’re on the receiving end of it.”

He leaned over the table. “But I’m sure you’re aware that it’s always the companies that keep the money, never the artists. Food for brains, you know. You’re punishing the wrong one.”

“Can we please not turn this into a discussion about capitalism,” some hippie from the other side of the table sighed, “I don’t like discussions about capitalism.”

The blonde next to him patted his violet-streaked hair. “It’s okay, nobody likes discussions about capitalism.”

The glasses guy – Combeferre – looked thoroughly thankful for hippie-guy’s comment. “Exactly, if we could please get back on topic, your contribution is appreciated...”

He cocked his head and Grantaire mock-saluted him. “Grantaire.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes, but Combeferre remained surprisingly calm considering that Grantaire was still smirking. If he loved one thing, it was taking down self-righteous assholes who thought they knew it all.

“Your contribution is appreciated, Grantaire,” Combeferre said, “Now, about the libraries...”

Grantaire zoned out again until somebody called for a round of shots about forty minutes later.

 

∞|∞

 

“Do we have to do this?”

“It’s tradition,” the big scary guy who had introduced himself as Bahorel while handing Grantaire a shotglass insisted.

Enjolras frowned. “You’re not even on the board, technically, why do you get to say that shots after a meeting are a tradition?”

“Because I got you out of jail once and you owe me.”

“You what?” Grantaire sputtered, and then looked at Enjolras unbelieving. “ _You_ were in jail?”

Enjolras crossed his arms, giving Grantaire that same look he was already used to – considering, assessing, and ultimately looking down upon him. They all did it, all those kids who’d grown up protected and safe, all those middle-aged jackasses with their ideas on how you had to behave and dress and _talk_ as a proper member of society.

“If you’re assuming Bahorel must be lying just because I don’t look like the people you usually make acquaintance with there, I’m sorry for you.” It probably would have sounded more condescending if his voice hadn’t been so utterly emotionless. “But yes, I have been in jail and Bahorel played a minor part in getting me out again. Any other questions?”

Grantaire would have liked to ask what he’d gone to jail for, but he wasn’t going to give the guy the satisfaction. “Nope. I’m glad we talked about it, though. You should know the worst about potential bedmates.”

Next to Grantaire, Courfeyrac almost choked on his drink. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, “If we’re keeping you, you’re gonna have to warn me before you say something like that.”

“Am I hurting your virgin ears?” Grantaire teased.

“I was just concerned about having to perform first aid on Enjolras,” Courfeyrac replied, “He might be going into shock if you flirt with him.”

“ _He_ is _not_ going into shock,” Enjolras insisted coolly, “And that was hardly flirting. If anything, a poor attempt at it.”

Grantaire shrugged. “I’m not interested, love. No worries.”

They raised their shotglasses and downed them under cheers and whooping. Grantaire held on to his backpack and laughed with them.

 

 

∞|∞

 

The first of them – Eponine and Cosette, Grantaire had learned all of their names by now – were getting up to leave when Grantaire leaned back on his seat with the expression of a guy who knew that all the hostels in town were closed by now.

“So...” he said slowly, turning to Courfeyrac who was rolling a cigarette on the table, “Would you mind helping out a guy with no money and a great taste in music?”

Courfeyrac frowned at him. “What do you need?”

Grantaire stretched lazily, raising his arms over his head and hearing the knuckles pop. “Well, you’ve been great company and everything--” He tried not to think about the fact that he wasn’t lying. “—but I really need a place to sleep. Could I crash at your place?”

Courfeyrac licked the paper of his cigarette and carefully rolled it between his fingers. “Dude, I insist,” he replied, “Anybody who can get a rise out of Enjolras deserves my respect. Besides, you tell great jokes.”

“I promise I’m not a serial killer,” Grantaire assured with his best _I’m-really-not-a-serial-killer_ -smile, which was incidentally his most creepy smile.

Courfeyrac finished padding his cigarette on the table to even it out and put a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. “You don’t even have to prove your taste in music. I helped out Marius, and he listens to _Take That_.”

 

∞|∞

 

Grantaire held on to his backpack as he followed Courfeyrac the short way to his apartment. It was dark outside, way past midnight, and Grantaire could see Courfeyrac shivering in his fashionably ripped tank top.

There was an elementary difference between them, and it was illustrated by the fact that Grantaire couldn’t give two craps about fashion. Courfeyrac could afford that luxury.

He’d done this before, Grantaire, hitting up random strangers who’d become passing acquaintances for a place to sleep. It was convenient, but it had never felt _welcoming_ like this.

“So do you take home strays a lot?” he asked Courfeyrac as he waited for him to unlock the front door of his apartment. Courfeyrac turned back and smiled at him, his face full of the dark shadows and pale light of a night in a major city.

“Sometimes,” he replied, “Admittedly, you’re the second.”

Grantaire laughed and followed him inside. Tomorrow, he’d be on his way, strange friendliness and welcoming gestures already forgotten as he’d be riding shotgun in a stranger’s car. Life was easier this way, although it beat him down pretty badly sometimes. He liked being able to decide where he went next.

Courfeyrac’s apartment was an accumulation of battered CDs, old posters on the walls and Chinese takeout boxes that were assorted around the trashcan. Apparently, Courfeyrac liked to play basketball with his trash.

He stayed in the hallway; feeling a bit lost as Courfeyrac dragged out a mattress, comforter and pillow for Grantaire and then looked at his makeshift bed with a content expression. “Do you need a pyjama?”

Grantaire shook his head. “I’m good,” he said, and Courfeyrac nodded and disappeared through a door on his right. Grantaire caught a glimpse of a bed, some socks on the ground, a stereo, and a bass.

He changed quickly, taking note of the fact that he should probably do laundry soon, and then rummaged around in his backpack for the plastic bottle of cheap wine he’d bought at a gas station yesterday. Before he could find it, Courfeyrac returned with a cup of something that smelt suspiciously like hot chocolate.

“Here you go.”

He shoved it into Grantaire’s hand before Grantaire could think twice. He could only blink and note, “How old do you think I am, five?”

Courfeyrac actually pinched his cheek. “I think you’re adorable, with your spiky leather jacket and your angry glaring and your giant backpack.”

Grantaire huffed and Courfeyrac smiled. “Can I put eyeliner on you?”

“I’m not your makeup doll!” Grantaire protested, horrified and frowning.

Courfeyrac shrugged. “Ah, well. I think it would look good on you. I tried it for a while, but my eyes are already too dark. I think it would look lovely with your green eyes.”

“I...” Grantaire frowned some more and sat down with his hot chocolate. “Thank you, I suppose.”

Courfeyrac leaned down and tugged the comforter over Grantaire’s bare feet. “The bathroom’s at the end of the hallway. I’m right next door if you need anything.”

He ruffled his hair with an affectionate smile. “Sleep well.”

Grantaire was still trying to figure out how to reply to that when the door to Courfeyrac’s room slammed shut.

Tomorrow, he vowed. Tomorrow he’d be gone.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate his hot chocolate tonight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our song for the chapter: Ain't It Fun by Guns 'n Roses


	2. You Better Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire wants to leave. Enjolras learns a few surprising things about his friends.

Something tickled on his arm. That was the first thing he became aware of.

His face was pressed into a soft surface, so at least he hadn’t passed out on the street – in fact, in felt like he was sleeping on a mattress for once – and there was a blanket wrapped around him, except for said arm which was home to the tickling. Grantaire groaned, rolled around and draped an arm across his face to shut out the sensation of blinding morning light.

“I think he’s awake,” a voice next to him called. Grantaire had a feeling that the voice was vaguely familiar, but then again, after a while everything sounded the same. You just started distinguishing threats and non-threats.

“Leave me alone,” he mumbled, but the tickling resumed and he actually had to draw the arm away from his face and pry open his eyes.

The stoned hippie from yesterday was smiling at him, the cap of a sharpie between his teeth. He had a firm grip around Grantaire’s right wrist, and Grantaire realised that the tickling sensation came from the movement of the sharpie across his skin.

“What are you doing?” he inquired.

The hippie smiled lazily. “It’s an art piece. The transitory difference between the purity and innocence of sleep versus the jagged edges of a life-hardened body.”

Grantaire found words on his skin, not the abstract shapes he’d expected. He couldn’t decipher the writing – it was loopy, small, and also very much affected by the guy’s drug habits – but he could recognise poetry when he saw it.

“Would you mind writing that down on paper?” he asked tentatively, heaving himself into a sitting position and running a hand through his hair. The other arm was still immobilised by the hippie holding his wrist.

Not that Grantaire couldn’t have gotten out of that grasp if he had wanted to. He just chose to be polite for the greater part of his life.

The rest... well, the rest was survival.

“I can’t,” the hippie insisted, “My art is always connected to people. It’s part of the cycle, my fair friend, and everything will turn to dust eventually. Words are fleeting, they can only hold truth for a moment, and so you have to ingrain them in the situation they belong to.”

Grantaire frowned. “Nice.”

A door opened – Grantaire recognised Courfeyrac’s bedroom door, and oh how he was grateful for Courfeyrac’s mattress, he was probably gonna thank the guy on his knees before he left.

“Jehan, leave our guest alone.”

Courfeyrac had coffee for Grantaire, and he kneeled down next to the mattress and handed him the mug while taking away the sharpie from Jehan. “You should sleep, you know.”

Jehan yawned, but quickly shut his mouth when he noticed Courfeyrac’s stare. “I’m not tired.”

“No, I get it, you’re floating on purple clouds to explore ethereal spheres. Bed.”

He ruffled Jehan’s hair, and Jehan punched him lightly but got up and headed for a door the other side of the hallway. “I’ll tell the fairy king you were mean to me.”

The door fell shut behind him with a bang.

Courfeyrac sighed and sat down properly, knees drawn to his chest and chin resting on top of his knees. He was already dressed but sans shoes, and his hair was still wet and not spiky from the morning shower he had apparently taken.

“Have you slept well?”

Grantaire had one problem with Courfeyrac, and that had to do with Grantaire being never sure if it was just Courfeyrac’s peculiar way of making conversation or if Grantaire really had no idea how to properly talk to people. He seemed caring in a way that Grantaire didn’t quite trust, because it mostly turned out to be shallow and faked interest that had him wind up drinking in yet another bar trying to forget that some people cared but most people didn’t.

“Marvellous, actually,” he replied with a grin, “Thanks, man.”

Courfeyrac beamed at him. “Glad to hear! Also, sorry about Jehan. He went out yesterday night, he’s got some friends who smoke pot and then write poetry. I actually thought he’d gone to bed after he stumbled in here about half an hour ago. Well, he’ll be back to normal in a few hours.”

“I’ve seen worse,” Grantaire replied, and then had to resist the urge to slap a hand over his mouth because he hadn’t meant to say that. Being honest always left him feeling guilty, because he was sure that people didn’t actually want to know that much about him, since it would, in turn, leave them feeling guilty.

Courfeyrac just cocked his head.

“I can imagine,” he said, and then got up, offering Grantaire a hand, “Okay, about breakfast.”

“Actually I was just gonna be on my way,” Grantaire replied, letting go of the helping hand. He took a step back, the cup of coffee still in his hand, trying to get a little space between himself and Courfeyrac and this dangerous ease between them because it felt like friendship when it couldn’t – friendship didn’t exist, and it wasn’t called into existence by a cup of hot chocolate and an offer for breakfast.

Courfeyrac fucking pouted. “Aw, man, I was gonna say we had leftover pancake batter and I was gonna colour it and draw smiley faces on the pancakes. Dude, have you ever eaten smiley pancakes?”

Grantaire had to admit that no, he had never eaten smiley pancakes.

Courfeyrac moved to stand next to him and flung an arm around his shoulders. “See, you’re missing out my friend.”

He seemed genuine.

Friendship didn’t exist, Grantaire repeated that in his head. Well, if it didn’t exist than he had nothing to fear.

∞|∞

Courfeyrac stayed true to his word and used the food colouring he proudly presented Grantaire to draw smileys into the still wet pancake batter. Grantaire had to admit that he didn’t exactly begrudge the free meal – after all, wasn’t his motto to take what he could get?

Courfeyrac’s easy chatter helped considerably to ease the tension from his bones. He’d taken up introducing Grantaire to his friends.

“Feuilly works like three different jobs, I swear to God. He lives with Bahorel, they’re pretty close friends... that’s why Bahorel was at the meeting yesterday. Bahorel’s a law student, but we have never seen him on campus. Well, except for Bossuet, he’s taking the same classes as Bahorel and says he does show up occasionally. Brilliant guy, Bossuet, he once fixed Jehan’s laptop with duct tape and a tooth pick, really, he has the best ideas but half of them turn against him because he’s just that unlucky. It’s a good thing he has Joly to patch him up, the two of them are practically inseparable. Joly ‘s studying medicine, you know? That, and he volunteers at the hospital and reads an awful lot of books, and then twice a week he calls someone because this website has him convinced that he’s going to die of Malaria.”

Grantaire was under the impression that Courfeyrac didn’t even breathe as he whirled around the kitchen, yesterday’s red tank top gone in favour of a black button-up shirt with sleeves that had been cut off under the shoulders and a red-and-black chequered tie loosely tied around his neck. There was a speck of pancake batter on his face.

“Combeferre studies medicine as well, and he conducts a local High School orchestra. He’s our voice of reason, despite Bahorel’s deeply ingrained belief that he’s got to be an agent or something at night because he knows _everything_. It’s scary sometimes, but then again, so is Enjolras.”

The first batch of pancakes landed on a plate that Courfeyrac shoved into Grantaire’s hands before shooing him and his coffee to the table.

“Eat,” he ordered and grinned happily to himself as Grantaire started munching the pancakes.

“Those are really good,” Grantaire said, and Courfeyrac turned back from the stove with a smile on his face.

“Cosette made the batter. The blonde, you met her yesterday?”

Grantaire nodded, even though he wasn’t quite sure if he remembered. There had been a few drinks, and everything was a haze of laughter and friendly smiles. The memory was a strange, warm sensation in his chest that made him wary, because he wasn’t used to it without the feeling of betrayal following shortly after.

People always left.

That’s why he usually left them before it could become a problem.

Courfeyrac returned with his own pancakes and sat down opposite of Grantaire, flicking idly through his phone.

Grantaire focussed on his pancakes, until he heard a disgruntled snorting noise from Courfeyrac and looked up. Courfeyrac was doing his best pouty face – and Grantaire didn’t feel like admitting the fact that he was slowly getting used to the guy’s overly expressive face, and he very much didn’t find it endearing because he couldn’t risk that.

“What’s up?”

Courfeyrac reluctantly tore his eyes from the screen. “We’re having a small concert tonight, a couple of friends and I, but our man for everything just cancelled and now we have no one to carry the drumset and all the other shit.”

He leaned back on his chair with a groan and closed his eyes, then sat up with a start, eyes wide open and fixing Grantaire. “You could help!”

“I...” Grantaire didn’t know what to say, because he knew he should be on his way, but couldn’t bring himself to say it right now – under the pretence that he didn’t want to seem rude by saying a hasty goodbye. “I mean...”

Courfeyrac raised his eyebrow. “You get a free ticket. I’m sure the music will be right up your street. Are you into apocalyptic post-punk?”

“What the fuck is that supposed to be?” Grantaire asked.

“That’s the right attitude,” Courfeyrac got up, “Actually, just come along, we’ll introduce you as one of the band members and you get free drinks as well. Have I convinced you yet?”

Grantaire found himself grinning despite himself. “Maybe.”

Courfeyrac patted his head and then kind of slid into ruffling his hair. “Excellent. You can carry our stuff while we do pretentious vocal warm ups.”

∞|∞

As it turned out, there really wasn’t much to carry, and the most Grantaire did that night was sit around with the other band members who, as Courfeyrac claimed, weren’t close friends and actually kind of idiotic but at least they knew how to play their respective instruments.

He also hadn’t been kidding about the vocal warm ups.

The evening progressed mostly uneventful – the music was okay, Courfeyrac was a reasonably good singer and probably would be better if he stopped shouting for a minute and actually tried to sing – and Grantaire lingered in a corner over a torn and battered map, trying to decide where to go next.

He put the map away when the band members came over to offer him drinks and thank yous.

∞|∞

“It was a lovely concert,” Grantaire said when he caught Courfeyrac in a quiet moment around four am, “but I’ll probably get going.”

Courfeyrac nodded. “That’s fine, I’ll just say goodbye to the other guys and I’ll come with you. Or you can go if you find back home on your own and ring, Jehan will open the door for you.”

He dashed off, and Grantaire was left standing and blinking in confusion. That wasn’t what he had tried to achieve.

Slowly, he began to wonder about himself, because even though he had tried to go, so far he hadn’t actually reached the part where he _got going_ , and he began to think he was deliberately miscommunicating what he wanted. He frowned at himself. Why, of all places, would he want to stay in some second-class university town for a couple of people he’d only just met?

There was an easy answer: because they made it easy.

Courfeyrac hadn’t once indicated that he wanted Grantaire out of his hair, he’d just included Grantaire in his daily routine as though it was the most natural thing in the world, and Grantaire could lean back and let himself be dragged along without – much – fear of being rejected. The little voice at the back of his head always remained, but Courfeyrac didn’t seem false, and the same went for the other people he’d met yesterday night.

Staying was easy, because no one gave him a reason to go.

He’d always been good at finding those reasons – some acquaintance he’d made was shrugging indifferently, and Grantaire was on his way; the weather got bad, and Grantaire was on his way; he couldn’t stand the local radio stations, and Grantaire was on his way.

But, somehow, not here.

“We’re good to go.”

Courfeyrac came back with a grin and a last beer that he took out of the bar they’d been playing in. Grantaire had already carried the instruments to the band’s van earlier that night, just after the band had finished playing and before the alcohol had started flowing freely, so he just trailed behind Courfeyrac indecisively.

Finally, he made up his mind.

“You know, I’m really grateful for your help,” he said, “but I don’t want to be any trouble. There’s a bus leaving in two hours that I could catch, and then I won’t be in your hair any longer.”

Courfeyrac turned around, and the look of surprise on his face wasn’t faked. Fuck people who were honest about their emotions, and fuck people whose emotions were beautiful. Those especially.

“You weren’t any trouble,” Courfeyrac insisted, “Really, do you want to leave again so soon?”

Grantaire shrugged, painfully aware of the fact that his certainty had disappeared once more. There he was, standing on an empty street in the relative coldness of a summer night, fighting himself for the right to leave, to go where he wanted, when really all he wanted to do was stay. It felt strange, and it made him want to run even more.

“If it’s okay I’d stay for tonight,” he mumbled, “I mean, there’s no need to wait two hours for the bus.”

He could take the one in the morning just as well. Just one more night on a proper mattress before he traded that for insecurity again, for the uncertainty of his next days, the next week or month, or, God forbid, year. He never thought that far, to be honest. It always felt to him like he would die before that.

Courfeyrac seemed relieved, and he went back to join Grantaire and press his shoulder affectionately. “I hope you can forgive me for not wanting to give you up just yet. I haven’t even gotten the chance to ask about your favourite bands. Do you like the Misfits? And what about festivals? Where have you been?”

He seized Grantaire’s right arm to push up the sleeve of the leather jacket and go through the collection of wristbands from concerts and festivals.

“Still meaning to go to that one,” he commented, “Ah, I’ve been there. Dreadful weather. Caught a cold.”

Grantaire laughed. “Okay, I won’t go just now, I promise.”

Courfeyrac giggled and let go of Grantaire’s arm. He swayed a bit, and Grantaire reached out to steady him – they were both a dangerous level of inebriated, conscious enough to feel safe, and drunk enough to feel daring.

“You can question me in the morning.”

Courfeyrac motioned to throw an arm over Grantaire’s shoulder, but thought better of it when he remembered the spikes. He settled for ruffling Grantaire’s hair again – and maybe that was a sign, it had grown scandalously long and unmanageable because the curls where tangled and messy, maybe he should cut it again – and patting his shoulder gently.

“Ever so anxious to leave,” Courfeyrac muttered musingly, “Have we done something? We’re nice people, usually, I promise.”

Grantaire shrugged. “It’s just how I roll, I guess.”

Courfeyrac snorted. “Okay, lonely wolf, I get it.”

Grantaire elbowed him. “Shut up.”

“You shut up.”

“How old are you?” Grantaire asked, rolling his eyes, “Five?”

“Twenty-two and drunk,” Courfeyrac replied, “which gives me the right to do, I believe, about anything without having to feel guilty, because I’m young and need to test my boundaries.”

“Bed,” Grantaire decided, “A bed sounds unbelievably attracting about now.”

“Sure you don’t wanna take the bench at the bus station?” Courfeyrac eyed him with a teasing grin. “I heard it’s comfortable.”

“Shut up,” Grantaire repeated.

“You shut up!”

At Grantaire’s merciless glance, Courfeyrac broke out into a sprint and didn’t stop running until he reached his apartment.

∞|∞

Breakfast was already waiting for him when he woke up the next morning. Courfeyrac had been waiting to tell him, grinning when Grantaire finally woke up and far too chipper for the fact that he’d been more than mildly drunk the night before, but he dragged Grantaire to the kitchen table nevertheless and offered him coffee.

“Do you want to come to our meeting tonight?”

Grantaire eyed him when he thought he wasn’t looking.

 _Leave_ , something in his head whispered. And yet it was so easy to stay.

“Something you need me for?” he asked.

“No.” Courfeyrac shrugged. “Just... thought it would be nice having you.”

Grantaire nodded. “Why not.”

“We could watch Star Trek afterwards,” Courfeyrac suggested, half distracted from where a sleepy Jehan in boxers and a ratty t-shirt entered the kitchen, his hair sticking up wildly in all directions. Courfeyrac was on his feet quickly and handing him a coffee before Jehan could even open his mouth. “Here you go.”

Jehan mumbled an incoherent thank you and trod over to the table where he slumped down on a seat. Courfeyrac sat back down as well and turned his attention back to Grantaire. “Have you ever seen the Original Series?”

Grantaire tried to remember how he had been as a teenager, tried to recall the awkwardness of sudden growth and too long limbs and inexperience and all the anxiety that came with it, tried to remember what sort of things he had liked, but nothing came. He’d banished all thoughts of this time from his memory, and all that remained was a vague sense of dread and at the same time gladness – gladness because that time was over, because he was gone and he could leave again whenever he wanted.

He shook his head. “Never.”

Courfeyrac looked affronted. “That is not acceptable. Jehan, we’re on a mission tonight.”

∞|∞

Enjolras woke sometime before six that morning, over five hours before he had to be at his only lecture of the day, with a distinct feeling of unease, like something had changed. He lay in the dark staring at the ceiling for a very long time, just letting his brain run. He wasn’t thinking about anything in particular, he was just thinking.

He couldn’t shake this feeling of ‘something’s-changed’ in the pit of his stomach, and it made him very uneasy.

He decided the only logical way to shake this emotion was to keep busy, so he sat up, and swung his legs around so that his feet were on the floor, and tried to think about something in particular. He tried to think about his last politics lecture, or the coming one. He tried to mentally plan out his history essay which was due next week. He tried to think about something, anything, just to concentrate on one thing, but he couldn’t, and his brain reverted back to this sense of unease.

Enjolras couldn’t put his finger on what he was feeling or why he was feeling it, and he didn’t like the uncertainty.

He decided to get dressed and go and buy some breakfast from the coffee shop down the road from his digs. He kept himself busy for the entirety of the day.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake this feeling of _something._

He didn’t like it.

∞|∞

That night was the second meeting of the Amis des Étudiants at the Musain, and Enjolras arrived at about the same time as Bahorel and Feuilly, who were early. Combeferre was running late (which of course meant he would only be there five minutes early rather than his usual fifteen), and the others were due to arrive soon. Enjolras decided to order his drink early to avoid Courfeyrac’s usual snicker, and got a beer each for Bahorel and Feuilly, which he brought over and set down in front of them.

“You’re early.” He remarked

“That we are,” said Bahorel, raising his bottle to toast Enjolras. “Where’s Ferre’s fine _derrière_ this evening?”

“Running late.”

“Text from Courfeyrac!” announced Feuilly. "He’s bringing the new guy!”

“Which new guy?” said Bahorel.

“Grantaire. You know, with the sexy leather jacket and last time he spoke up about artist copyright or something. The free-content thing?”

“Oh yeah i remember! Is he one of us then?” Bahorel said to Enjolras with a grin.

“What?” said Enjolras.

“Have we gained an Ami?“

“Well he isn't of the university so I suppose-“

He was interrupted here by the arrival of Marius, Joly, Cosette and Eponine, the latter three coming towards the table whilst Marius headed up to the bar. Cosette had two large plastic containers stacked in her hands with a smaller one balanced precariously on top, which meant food, and considering it was Cosette, it meant awesome home-baked food.

"I brought brownies!" she announced excitedly. "Green dots on top mean its mint choc chip, orange peel means its chocolate orange, nothing means normal chocolate fudge, and I brought butterfly cakes if anybody doesn’t like chocolate."

"I've said it before and I'll say it again, Marius is the luckiest of the lucky bastards who have all the luck. You" said Bahorel, "are an absolute angel, you know that?" He took a bite of a mint chocolate chip brownie and groaned "oh my _God_ , these are amazing! MARIUS! HEY, HEY MARIUS!" he shouted over "IM STEALING YOUR GIRLFRIEND! SHE'S WAY TOO GOOD FOR YOU!"

He said this with a wink at Cosette, who blushed and smiled.

"It was nothing, really. They’re really easy to make and I enjoy doing it. Here, try a butterfly cake. I put vanilla in the buttercream because I remember how much everyone liked my vanilla cupcakes last time."

"You're a goddess,” said Bahorel, eating half of the cake in one bite. "No." He said with his mouth full. He swallowed and tried again. "No. No, im sorry, but im going to have to confiscate all of these, because they are illegally good. What?" he said as Cosette laughed. "Trust me, I'm a lawyer. Im going to have to eat all of these so you dont get sent to prison forever. Sorry, I dont make the rules."

"Do i hear someone flirting with my girlfriend?" said Eponine from the door. She made her way over to the table. " _You’ve been baking_? Bahorel, you're excused." She took a plain brownie and stuffed the whole thing in her mouth, trying to chew and moan in appreciation and tell Cosette how good they were at the same time, but what actually happened was she hummed unintelligibly with her mouth so full both cheeks were puffed out, and repeatedly patted and stroked Cosette's arm with both of hers, as if this translated to some form of coherent communication. When she eventually swallowed the first thing she did was say "Oh, I hate you."

"Good then?" teased Cosette.

"Fuck you, get out of my face!" said Eponine, but she was smiling as she reached for another brownie.

Somewhere during this exchange, Jehan and Combeferre wandered in and as the former took an interest in the food and kissed Cosette on the cheek, Combeferre was straight to business as usual.

"Do you have the agenda?"

"Yes," replied Enjolras. On the first meeting of the week, they discussed complaints and suggested forms of action, whereas on the second they reviewed any decisions they'd made and started putting their plans in motion."Is everyone here?"

"We're missing Courfeyrac," provided Combeferre, "and Bossuet isn't coming, Joly's prescribed him bedrest. He bashed his head again, quite hard or so I'm told. Joly thinks it might be concussion, but Bossuet doesn’t want to go to hospital to check, so he's in bed until Joly is convinced he isn't going to fall into a coma. I'm going to check on him later."

Bossuet really did have the worst luck, but Enjolras was distracted from his concern by Courfeyrac coming through the open door of the Musain, with Grantaire in tow. Grantaire was wearing a different shirt, but otherwise looked identical to the last meeting, and he seemed to be smiling as Courfeyrac pulled him to the bar by the wrist.

"Do you want to talk about it?" said Combeferre suddenly.

"About what?" said Enjolras

"You have been distracted all day. Tell me why."

"I…" began Enjolras, "I admit I haven’t been myself, but I genuinely don’t know- I'm not sure why I- look, can we talk later? I'd rather get on now that everyone's here."

"Okay," said Combeferre, leaning back. "But we are talking," he added as a warning.

"Now that everyone's here," said Enjolras in his commanding we're-doing-important-things voice, "The first thing we have to address is how to proceed with the petition regarding more vegetarian and vegan options in the lunch hall. I think the right way to go would definitely be a survey to see how important this issue is, which we could do online."

"I'll do the survey," provided Combeferre.

"Anybody have anything to add? Okay. Second, a lot of people of the LGBTQA+ community wanted an active society or club."

"Well that shouldn’t be difficult." Said Jehan, "you only need 20 members before you can form a university society, you just need to get their names and submit it to Student Services."

So the meeting went. They discussed the library, and how small the independent working zone was, and how they could work to solve it.

But Enjolras' head wasn’t in it.

He was frustrated, because if he was distracted by something in particular, he could work to eliminate the distraction, but the problem he had was that he was just... thinking.

The meeting wrapped up, but it was still early as the meeting only took 20 minutes. The longest the second meeting had ever taken was 45 minutes, and that was because Joly made them take a long break so that he could tend to a wound on Bahorel's knuckles. Courfeyrac and Combeferre and Marius were at the bar, fetching everyone another round as was the usual way of proceeding from the second-meeting to the weekly-alcohol-fest, as shown by the fact that the drink before Enjolras was now a beer, and not his usual Virgin Colada. Everyone now got to catching up with everyone's weeks, or they usually would have been, if there wasn’t a new guy to take an interest in.

"So let me get this right." Grantaire was saying to Marius, Cosette and Eponine whilst everyone else listened intently. "You three are together... as in _together_ together?"

"As in _together_ together, yes," said Marius with a blush.

"How would you even go about starting a scenario like that?"

"Well she liked Marius before I did," began Cosette, "And Marius liked me before she did, and I've liked her for years, and then I got with Marius, and one night things got a bit... interesting, and then, well, it just made sense. It's been a thing ever since."

"Holy shit!" said Grantaire, obviously impressed. "Well Ku-fucking-dos Marius! I don’t know how you do it but Ku-fucking-dos!"

“What makes you think Marius is the one deserving your praise?” Eponine asked, an eyebrow raised, “We all know I actually run things in this relationship.”

Cosette smiled, grabbed two brownies from her boxes and held them out to Marius and Eponine, who grabbed them eagerly. Cosette just smiled. “Let them think they have any sort of autonomy and everyone will be happy.”

Grantaire nodded. “I’m impressed.”

"What?" said Eponine, obviously trying to get a rise out of Grantaire, "Never had a threesome before?" 

Grantaire looked down and smiled shyly, obviously unsure whether kissing and telling was the right thing to do. It wasn’t as if he was doing it out of consideration for his partners, he didn’t even remember their names, but for some reason he didn’t want the people around him to think any less of him. He'd met with them twice now, and for some reason, though he didn’t want to admit it, he cared about what they thought.

"Oh my _God_ ," said Eponine, "you _have_!"

"I-" began Grantaire. Ah, fuck it. "Yeah okay. But never like an extended thing that you guys have got going on. It was one night, and then i never saw any of the guys again."

" _Guys_?" said Cosette excitedly. " _You’ve had an all-dude threesome_?”

"So it would seem." He said with a smirk. "Not that I’m bragging but, yeah. It was fun. It was just after- well, just after I... moved out of, uh, my parents place, and I met them at a bar, and  never saw them again. It was cool."

"Yay! Threesome Club!" said Courf, holding his hand up for a high five. Grantaire high fived him, puzzled, and then received a high five from both Jehan and, to Enjolras' shock, Combeferre.

"There's a...club?" he said, amused, "Wow. You guys need hobbies."

"Yes indeed!" said Courfeyrac, "Not two dudes though, a dude and a chick. That dude, in fact, " he said, indicating Jehan.

"You two are...? I didn’t know you two were together!"

"Oh no, we're not. It was just one night. Well," he amended, "just that one night and then some other stuff. We're just friends though." He finished with a smile. "But two dudes! Wow! You can tell me all about that tonight when I paint your nails."

"You're not painting my nails."

"Come on man, I'm not asking for much! Let me paint your nails."

"You should let him paint your nails," supplied Marius.

"Woah! What did I ever do to you?" asked Grantaire, wounded.

"I'm just saying," said Marius. "Eponine and Cosette do mine all the time. It’s kind of nice, I like it."

There was a temporary silence in the room. Grantaire didn't know whether to laugh or not. Marius was starting to seem more and more like some strange mythical beast. Not quite human, not quite... anything else. There should be experiments conducted on him in either case.

"And on that note!" announced Courfeyrac, standing up, "Tonight I'm going to introduce Grantaire to Original Series Star trek because he's never seen it and refuses to tell me what his guilty pleasure is, so I’m giving him one of mine, and tomorrow we're going to find him a job so he can contribute to buying our beverages and Bounty bars."

"Well I wasn't really thinking of staying for-"

" _Wait_!" shouted Feuilly, "Wait, wait, yes! We're looking for a new hand at the garage and I _really_ don’t want them to hire another pre-pubescent slacker. Can you fix cars? Bikes? Vans?"

"No, I've never-"

"But you can learn, right?" Feuilly looked so damn excited, Grantaire didn't know how to say that he hadn’t even been planning on staying _this_ long.

"Uh, sure, I guess?"

" _Perfect_! Yes, he can start tomorrow!" said Courfeyrac with a grin so manic he looked vaguely like a serial killer, "What time do you want him?"

"Whenever. Like nine? Tenish?"

"Perfect he'll see you tomorrow! Bye everyone!"

Everyone said their goodbyes as Courfeyrac led a stunned looking Grantaire out the door.

At this point, Combeferre got up to leave and Enjolras took his opportunity to corner him. He took him by the arm and lead him away from the table.

Enjolras found that he couldn't quite phrase what he wanted to say, so a silence hung between them like humidity.

"Everything okay?" said Combeferre, concerned. "is this about what's been bothering you all day?"

"You had a-" Enjolras tried again, "When did you- How- Who did you?"

"Woah, words. What are you talking about?"

"In there!" Shouted Enjolras exasperatedly, "you said! When Grantaire and Marius and Courfeyrac- you said you had a...When did- how-who did you?" Damn it what the hell had happened to his brain today?

"Are you trying to tell me you didn't know that I had a threesome?" supplied Combeferre, but not unkindly. Enjolras trusted him the most, and that was probably because he understood Enjolras the most. Indeed, perhaps he knew Enjolras better than Enjolras did himself.

"I didn't even know you were sexually active!" said Enjolras, stunned. How did he not know this? Admittedly, he hadn't given much thought to Combeferre's personal feelings, but he assumed that Combeferre just hadn't, like Enjolras _just hadn't_.

"Well you've met all the girls I've been with," said Combeferre, defensively. "Look, I just... okay, Enjolras, you're my best friend, and as good as you are with words, you aren't very good with words. If you're trying to tell me you feel betrayed that I didn't tell you, then I'm sorry, but you never seemed interested in.."

"In what? I take an interest in your life! I always ask you how your schoolwork is coming along and-"

"In sex, Enjolras. And that’s okay! It’s who you are and you're my friend and I've accepted it, I just assumed that if you weren’t interested in... well, conquests of your own, then you wouldn’t want to hear about mine. If you want to hear about mine then I promise to tell you sometime." He sighed, "Okay look I have to go and check on Bossuet. Sorry I kept it from you, but I honestly thought you just didn't want to know. Are we okay?"

Enjolras had spent the entire conversation almost in a shock-induced trance, but he was broken out of it to respond "Yes of course we're okay. See you tonight if I'm still up, yeah? Or tomorrow?" Combeferre nodded and clapped a hand on Enjolras' shoulder before making his exit, leaving Enjolras to wonder when all of his friends began... well, growing up, essentially, and exactly how, and when, he got left behind.

Enjolras slunk out of the Musain with a feeling of dejection. He was so focused on changing the world that he hadn't realised that his friends were out doing real things, making friendships and getting jobs and pursuing people romantically, whereas all Enjolras had away from his activism was a certificate of exam results and a distant family.

In that moment, Enjolras realised something: His friends and him were different, and not just on this one romantic level. It struck Enjolras in that moment as he walked home alone in the cold dark that he was truly, completely alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for the chapter: 'Besser du rennst' - Subway to Sally
> 
> All the brownie recipes were researched and can be found here:  
> http://vegetarian.about.com/od/desertrecipes/r/fudgebrownies.htm  
> http://www.mybakingaddiction.com/mint-chocolate-chip-brownies/  
> http://polkadotpudding.wordpress.com/2013/03/22/chocolate-orange-brownies/


	3. Hitchin' A Ride

Grantaire awoke to Courfeyrac’s face incredibly close to his.

“Good morning, sunshine.” Courfeyrac grinned and pressed his face in closer.

It was way too early for this.

“What time is it?”

“Exactly thirty-two minutes past eight in the morning,” said Courf excitedly, “On your first day of work!”

Grantaire was confused, but then remembered. “Ah shit.” He said “I really genuinely know nothing of motor..things. I really don’t know how much good I’ll be. And also I kind of wasn’t really planning on sticking arou-“

“Why must you always want to try and leave me?” Courfeyrac said, with a pout, an actual pout. Holy shit the guy was actually pouting. “I’m going to make some things very clear to you, G-spot. Number One: you have a place to stay here as long as you want to be here, which you do. You keep pretending you have to go, but, and I say this with love, just shhhhhhh.” Here he put a finger over Grantaire’s lips and grinned so wide it made his eyes crinkle. He looked like a serial killer.

“Did you just call me G-spot?”

“Because you’re orgasmic. Now _Shhhhh_.” He said again, pressing his finger harder. “Which number was I on? Oh yes! Two: you now have a job, and Feuilly is very excited so don’t be a little shit. You get paid on the 26 th of each month, some of the money you will be handing over to me for Pimms and Star Trek merchandise, by which of course I mean food. No I don’t. Well… I don’t know, maybe. Anyway. You have a house and a job and everyone thinks you’re a pretty cool, so stay? For a while? A little while?” He finally removed his finger from Grantaire’s lips.

“I…” Grantaire had spent this entire lecture in a kind of shock-induced silence, but now he had to actually consider what Courfeyrac was saying. For once in his life, Grantaire was with somebody who wanted him to stay. He actually had to consciously remind himself to not freak out, because this was very different. He never wanted to stay, and nobody ever wanted him to stay, ever since he ran from his Dad’s house all those years ago, no idea where he was going, just the pounding of his feet on the pavement. But now he had a place to stay, people to stay with, something to stay for.

And he could always leave. He had the option. He wasn’t trapped. He was safe. If he wasn’t careful, this could be home. The first home he could remember. He made his decision.

“I  guess I could stay for a while.”

“EXCELLENT!” said Courf, moving towards the door with a surprisingly graceful quasi-pirouette. “Oh and by the way when I say _a little while_ of course I mean _forever_. YOU SAID YES! VERBAL CONTRACT! NO TAKE BACKS OR BAHOREL WILL SUE YOU!” he shouted as he made his way to the kitchen to make Grantaire nutella pancakes.

“Oh, and I brought you clothes!” he said from the kitchen .“You have to accept because you can’t go play mechanic in them sexy shoes, I won’t allow it. Observe!” he said, reappearing and throwing a plastic bag full of clothes in the still sleepy Grantaire’s lap. “They’re only some cast offs I rounded up from the group, but there’s some stuff which you can work in and-”

Grantaire couldn’t remember smiling like this in- well, Grantaire couldn’t remember smiling like this. Ever.

He didn’t know how it happened, but he was safe, and happy, comfortable in boxers and one of Courfeyrac’s old t-shirts , and for the first time in his life, Grantaire was staying.

∞|∞

Enjolras woke up two minutes before his alarm.

He never felt any of the tiredness that came with early mornings, the kind of laziness his friends often complained about and that lingered in warm sheets and a soft pillow. His days were always filled to the brim with activities and appointments, and sometimes he woke up and thought his heart hadn’t even stopped the frantic beating in the night.

“Are you awake, sweetie?”

The voice of his mother rang from behind his door, a melodic singing with a little too much enthusiasm.

Enjolras sat up and ran a hand through his hair. There was a sharp pain where it had tangled overnight, and yes, maybe his hair was slowly reaching a length that could be classified as _too long_. He didn’t care – at least it was his decision.

“Yes, I’m awake!”

He got up from his bed, reaching for the khaki pants and white shirt he knew would be on the chair next to his bed, and dragging them behind himself to the bathroom to get dressed. Every morning felt the same, he mused as he cleaned his teeth and brushed his hair, they bled into each other with no originality. It was just a dull, persistent routine.

He shook his head. When had he started sounding like a forty year old man in his midlife crisis?

When he went downstairs, his mother and father were waiting at the breakfast table, father, as always, hidden behind a newspaper half as long as Enjolras, but Enjolras didn’t need to see him to picture the everlasting scowl on his face. He’d long ago learned that Enjolras Senior only read the newspaper because that’s what people in his position did.

Enjolras Senior was a tall man, and his son was coming after him in that regard. He had gone bald with thirty, and his high forehead gave his face a permanently doubtful and stern expression. People always told Enjolras he had his father’s eyes, and he hoped to God he did not – this piercing blue was among the most disturbing memories of his childhood, burning cold ice and a raised finger and the closed office door, Enjolras standing in front of heavy oak wondering where his father went.

The only thing he’d inherited from his mother were the blond curls that were always causing her so much grief because her son refused to cut them. Her own hair was shiny and well-brushed, tied into a knot at the base of her skull. Her make-up was flawless, and there was lipstick sticking to her cup of green tea. She smiled at him.

“How did you sleep, honey?”

He shrugged, sitting down and reaching for a piece of toast. There was no nutella on the table, but some kind of organic hazelnut-and-chocolate-cream with extra low sugar. Better than nothing.

“Well enough,” he replied and spread the cream on his toast, avoiding his mother’s eyes and his father peering over his newspaper. Enjolras could hear the paper crackling where it was lowered ever-so-slightly.

“I hope you didn’t stay up too late with your homework,” his mother added, and Enjolras repressed a sigh and refrained from telling her for the tenth time that he didn’t get _homework_ , he just had to do a lot of studying to keep up with all of his classes. He wasn’t twelve anymore.

“No, it’s going alright at the moment,” he replied courtly, then took a large bite of his toast.

“We were worried that with your extracurricular activities for the board it might be too much work,” his mother said, and Enjolras caught her looking at his father with this look that just _told_ him they had been talking about this behind his back, “But it’s nice to hear you’re getting along.”

Enjolras didn’t reply to that, he just finished his toast and hastily gulped down a cup of coffee. “I gotta run,” he said, “Combeferre wants me to pick up two books he thinks might be helpful for one of my classes.”

He picked up his backpack turning around to head for the door.

“Honey, your plate.”

He turned around, facing the table where his plate sat with barely a speck on it.

“You forgot to wash it.”

His shoulders sagged ever-so-slightly as he dropped his bag and reached for the plate, shooting his mother a glance when he was sure she wasn’t looking.

He finished washing his plate and headed out.

∞|∞

Courfeyrac herded Grantaire out the door with two slices of toast thickly spread with Nutella in one hand (“But we just had pancakes!” “You’re a working man now, I’m feeding you up.”)and Courfeyrac’s own hand in the other, pulling Grantaire along as if he were a child. When they reached the garage, Courf took him right to the door, shouted “FEUILLY!” before suddenly pulling Grantaire into the biggest bear hug. “I love you,” whispered Courfeyrac sincerely.

“What?”

“I said, have a nice day at work, Dear. You smell of my coconut conditioner.”

“Ah... cool. That’s because I used it. Can you...” Grantaire awkwardly patted Courfeyrac’s naked bicep as the smaller man held on with considerable force. (Today he had gone for an unbuttoned bright red waistcoat (to match his fingernails) and leather pants (to match his eyeliner). He looked like he was either headed for a strip club or a pride parade) “You can let go.”

“Grantaire! Glad you could make it!” said Feuilly, approaching behind the two men, his face marked by something black, which had also invaded his ginger hair.

“Hey, yeah, I-“

“Shhh! we’re having a moment!” said Courfeyrac, sternly, his arms wrapped tightly around his friend, who was fighting for freedom. “I love you.” He said again.

“I-“

“You have to say you love me back.” He instructed.

“I… love you back?”

“Yes you do,” said Courfeyrac, pulling back before kissing Grantaire on both cheeks. “Have a fabulous day at work, darling. When you finish we’re getting take out to celebrate, and we can play Green Day rock band all night. I’m gonna kick your ass. It’s going to be AMAZING!”

“Aren’t you coming to the meeting?” interjected Feuilly, not at all fazed by Courfeyrac’s antics.

“Oh shit! I almost forgot about that. Okay, okay. You finish work, home, shower, Tai food, _some_ Green day rock band, meeting, then _some more_ Green Day rock band! Yes good. See you later!” with this he turned away and Grantaire was left with an oil-stained Feuilly.

“I meant what I said before about not knowing anything-“

“Oh it’s fine. I’ve decided, I’m going to teach you everything I know. Not today, obviously. Well, not all of it today, but we can teach you how to do oil and tires, and that’s what most people come in for anyway. Don’t worry about it, really we just need an extra set of muscles. Just ask whenever you need to ask and you’ll do fine. Plus we take like ten undeserved tea breaks. You’ll do fine.” With this he clasped a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder in a reassuring gesture, and Grantaire smiled at the contact. As Feuilly took him for a tour of the Garage, Grantaire mentally listed things that had changed.

  * He had a job
  * He had a home
  * He had friends



All day, as he learned about engines and tires and bodywork, he tried to understand how he’d let himself become so... stationary. If sixteen year old him could see him now he would be screaming “GET THE FUCK OUT! NOW!”, but each time Grantaire thought about getting out, leaving, moving on, leaving behind, he thought about how warm and tight Courfeyrac’s hug had been, he smiled, and he stayed.

Whatever-the-fuck-was-running-the-universe help him, but he was staying.

∞|∞

People somehow always assumed he had a car, but Enjolras took the bike to university. His parents, albeit rich, had never offered to buy him one, and abhorred the thought of owning one in any case – there were too many things tied to it, to the money, to the status, that he would rather forget.

It was a rather warm day, but the wind blew cold and sharp and he could feel his nose and cheeks reddening as he raced down the bike lane next to BMWs and Audis heading towards the city centre where the banks and stock market where at. His father was going the same way every morning, and Enjolras’ university was only five minutes by car from his father’s office. His father had only offered him a ride once, though, and Enjolras had refused.

He could not stand the thought of being brought to school like a first grader.

There were three big office towers rising in the distance, two of them home to national banks. Enjolras never looked that far, keeping his eyes on the road in front of him, because all of his childhood had been men in suits coming from or heading towards those towers, and he’d always been half part of this world of whispers, of his father closing his office door behind himself, of hushed conversations at the dinner table and his mother saying _don’t tell, Enjolras, it’s your money as well, don’t forget that, you owe your father. Don’t tell_.

All bankers were liars, and all politicians were blind.

Combeferre was waiting for Enjolras in front of the student dorm, still in his pyjamas and without his signature glasses. There was a sharp pain in Enjolras chest when Combeferre smiled at him and then yawned, stretching like a lazy cat. He remembered their conversation from the night before, and realised it was jealousy, of sorts. Combeferre’s life was his idea of what life at university should be like, and Combeferre himself was self-reliant and managed his life with an easy grace. Enjolras wished he could say half as much about himself.

They greeted each other with a hug, and the tension bled out of Enjolras.

“You look sleepy,” he commented with a small smile. Combeferre snorted. “You look like you could use some sleep.”

∞|∞

As it turned out, Grantaire only had time to get a quick shower before the meeting started. He even opted to wear some of his new clothes- that is, he put on a different jacket. It was green and warm and safe, with no spikes, and he wore the same trainers he wore for work. Looking in the mirror it was… strange. He didn’t look the same, but he didn’t look… bad. Not bad at all. In fact, he just looked like a normal, regular guy, in a dull coat and ratty trainers. He mentally shook himself, like, what we’re you expecting? It’s a coat. No big difference, no big deal.

 _He_ was what was different.

“Looking good baby! That’s one of Jehan’s coats.”

“Will he want it back? I can wear my other-“

“NOOOO, no, no, Jehan refuses to wear anything green. He went through a green phase when he wore everything green, now he wears nothing green. Don’t ask me why, but he has his rules. Looks good on you, anyhow. Ready to go?”

“Yes, but I do have a question,” said Grantaire as they headed out the door.

“Ask and you shall receive. Oh, remind me to get you a key cut.” He added as he locked the door.

“Why the hell do you have so many meetings? What do you talk about?”

“Well, to be honest you’ll notice we don’t all do the talking. Most sit quietly whilst Enjolras and ‘Ferre do all the work, as works for everyone. Usually people only pitch in when they strongly agree, strongly disagree or can help.”

“But _two_ meetings a week? Is it really necessary?”

“Absolutely! But not as like a serious, strictly-business, students-yay sort of thing. It’s an excuse to have a social gathering, it’s why I suggested the bar. It’s why we have the tab. I mean, Enjolras loves us, he does, but he’s sort of… business-minded? He agrees to come out with us because he thinks he’s saving the world, I don’t know if he would if it was just getting pissed. He’d sit in and read philosophy or whatever.”

“So the meetings are a way to trick your prude-y friend to come out with you?”

“Kind of? I mean we _do_ serious business things, as well. But yes, social stuff, and we love Enjolras and want him there.”

“Why? Enjolras, I mean. He’s alright, but he seems a bit…”

“Hmm?”

“Like he has a stick up his arse?”

Courfeyrac laughed hard. “Well that’s one way to put it! Nah, he’s alright, but he is the way he is, and that’s okay, you know? We accept him and love him. I’d die for him, we all would. Jehan got high one night and told us all in a past life we _did_ die for him, which doesn’t surprise me. For a weed-induced fantasy it was surprisingly accurate in its… moral, you know? Except for the France part.”

“What?”

“We were French, apparently. We were technically dying for France, but from what Jehan said it sounds like Enjolras tricked us into it.”

Grantaire laughed. “Was I there?”

Courfeyrac shook his head.“Nah, it was before we met you. But anyway, we love Enjolras, but like I said, he is what he is. Some people are up all night for good fun, they’re up all night to get lucky. Enjolras is more up all night to… secure freedom and equality for all people?”

“Was that daft punk?”

“Yes. _We’re up all night to secure/ equality for the people_. Oh, we’re here. That was quick”

∞|∞

His parents weren’t home when Enjolras came back from his last lecture in the late afternoon. He vaguely remembered his mother mentioning a reception they had to attend, but he also remembered not being able to care less at the time because Combeferre had messaged him with details about a new university policy that they wanted to protest, so there was that.

He flung his bag into a corner of his room and got rid of the khaki trousers first, because his mother might want him to wear them for attending lectures because he had to look _professional_ , but he could wear what he bloody well wanted to the meetings. The white shirt went to the laundry as well, and then he went through his clothes in the closet.

Grantaire came to his mind while he picked a dark jeans and put it on, Grantaire the new guy with the leather jacket and heavy boots who looked homeless and probably somehow was. Compared to him, Enjolras looked boring no matter what contents of his wardrobe he would put on.

Not that he wanted to look like Grantaire. Mostly, Enjolras wanted to get rid of all of the soft colours and starched shirts, throw out everything plain and expensive and pretentious and replace it with something that just screamed _I am not like my parents_ or better yet _I am not as boring as you make me out to be_.

Like that would ever happen.

He found a red shirt at the bottom of the closet, though, and put it on with a satisfied smile. He texted Combeferre that he was on his way, grabbed his notes and got going again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song of the chapter: Hitchin' A Ride - Green Day

**Author's Note:**

> Find us on tumblr under speightdaysaweek and buveurgrantaire.


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